


Nothing So Simple

by linndechir



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: The Inquisition is marching on Adamant Fortress. Cullen has trouble sleeping and the lyrium withdrawal is making his whole body ache, so he's grateful when Dorian decides to keep him company for the evening. None of this was ever supposed to get complicated.





	Nothing So Simple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayporwave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayporwave/gifts).



The sand crunched loudly under his boots as Cullen walked through the Inquisition camp towards his tent. Nightfall had driven the day’s heat away with almost frightening speed, leaving the air still and cold under the shimmering sky. It was beautiful, in a stark, lifeless way, but Cullen wasn’t in the mood to contemplate the landscape.

The atmosphere around the camp was as expected. Uncertainty and fear, of course, about what the confrontation with the Wardens would bring, but also a sense of optimism and elation that they were finally _doing_ something. Bringing the fight to Corypheus rather than hiding in Skyhold and hoping for the best, hoping they’d have enough time to prepare for the next attack, hoping that there wouldn’t be a second Haven.

Optimism didn’t come easily to Cullen, but determination did. The Inquisition’s forces were well trained and well armed. Many of them were young and inexperienced, yes – those were the ones who tended to fall silent when he walked by, the ones who didn’t want their Commander to hear of their doubts – but many others were hardened soldiers, ready for battle, well aware of the dangers it brought and more than willing to face them. Even so, few of them were used to the desert heat. Cullen had never been in a place this forsaken in his life. It reminded him of the Fade in some ways, of horrible, twisted dreams, mountains of sand that hopefully only hid darkspawn and not demons.

Demons. If they were too late, they were marching towards a whole army of demons. The very thought turned Cullen’s spine into ice. Memories nipped at his consciousness, flashes of a windowless tower, magical bonds cutting into ripped skin while unimaginable horrors tore at his mind, digging for every weakness, every desire, every lowly thought he’d ever held to turn it against him.

Laughter tore him away from the abyss his mind was stumbling towards. He looked to his right to see the Iron Bull and his Chargers sitting around a fire. They were too far away, and the camp was too loud, for him to make out any words in their conversation, but the voices were teasing, bantering, good-humoured. The Chargers had seen countless battles. They knew not to waste what could be their last days on fretting. Earlier Cullen had passed Hawke and Varric just outside the Inquisitor’s tent – lost in quieter, more serious conversation, but everything about them radiated a calm familiarity, that of old friends who had each other’s backs.

Cullen felt an pointless pang of envy. He’d never been the most _approachable_ of men. It wasn’t that men particularly disliked him, or at least he didn’t think so, but something about him had always made them keep a respectful distance. Maybe he’d been too serious. He’d certainly been teased about it often enough during his Templar training. In Kirkwall rank had set him apart, rank and a cloud of anger and fear that made it unthinkable to focus on anything but his duty. Since he’d joined the Inquisition, his rank had been an even bigger obstacle between him and his men. He let the Inquisitor drag him to the tavern sometimes, but soldiers didn’t relax when their commander was drinking next to them. And that was what he’d always be to them, their commander. The man who decided who among them went into the breach first when they stormed the fortress, the man who’d sent them on their assignments. Ultimately the man who decided just how expendable their lives were.

The Iron Bull caught Cullen’s eye after a moment, then nodded. They didn’t talk very often – Cullen didn’t particularly like spies and subterfuge, but Bull had been disarmingly honest about what he was, and in some ways they seemed to understand each other. They were both soldiers. They had both served something greater than themselves. They both knew, even if they’d never lost a word about it to each other, that serving something greater often required unbearable sacrifices. That nothing could break a man like his own duty. And that few things could leave a man as adrift in the world as reconsidering whether all those sacrifices had been for a worthy cause.

Cullen returned the nod, then resumed the walk back to his tent. His skin was itching at the back of his neck – no, aching was a better word, like needle pricks right under his skin. It started as mild discomfort, but from experience he knew that the pain could quickly spread over his whole body, setting every nerve ending on fire until even standing up straight took almost insurmountable effort. He wanted to be alone before that happened. His headache had been building up for days, ever since they’d reached the Western Approach. Cullen had been getting better over the past weeks – partly thanks to a few potions the Inquisitor and his alchemists had concocted – but the climate here didn’t agree with him. The heat was hammering against his temples all day, and the cold of the nights stung his aching skin. He hadn’t eaten since a quick lunch on horseback, but his stomach lurched unpleasantly at the thought of dinner.

He made it back to his tent without too many interruptions – two runners with questions about supplies and equipment, one wide-eyed young soldier looking for reassurance Cullen gave more curtly than he probably should have. His tent, somewhat larger than he thought necessary, while Lady Montilyet had insisted otherwise, at least gave him enough room for a large crate he used as a makeshift desk to spread out his notes and papers and maps. There was a larger desk in the command tent, where the advisors and the Inquisitor planned their moves, but Cullen tended to keep working into the night. A voice in his head that sounded a lot like his sister Mia told him to get some rest, but from experience he knew that he’d only lie on his cot and stare into the darkness, fending off sleep to fend off the nightmares. He might as well work through the impending headache, and the elderberry infusion one of the healers had recommended kept it to a bearable level.

It was hard to gauge how much time had passed because the night outside never grew entirely dark, even less so in a large military camp full of torches and mage lights, before a light rapping on the tent flap startled him from his work. He hadn’t even answered yet before the flap was lifted and Dorian stuck his head into the tent.

“Ah, Commander, there you are. Never a hard man to find – just turn left at the fun and go straight towards all the tedious work.” His voice was as smooth as always, glistening like cool water under the sun. Some voices became almost insufferably grating when Cullen’s head hurt, but Dorian’s had never bothered his frayed nerves.

Without waiting for an invitation Dorian stepped into the tent, balancing a full bowl of stew and a few slices of bread. Despite Cullen’s earlier queasiness, his stomach rumbled at the smell. 

“I’m more surprised that you would flee all the fun and entertainment for your dinner,” Cullen said and rose with a small smile. He’d wanted to be alone, but there were worse people to show up uninvited than Dorian. He was pleasant company – not just for a mage or a Tevinter noble, but in general. Even on bad days talking to Dorian cheered him up at least a little bit. 

“It’s not _my_ dinner. I already stuffed mine dutifully down my poor abused throat. When all this is over, I’m going to throttle whoever hired a Fereldan cook for this army.”

A familiar complaint, as familiar as Dorian’s derisive comments on the wine they drank during chess games, or the cold weather on those days when they had to play in Cullen’s office because the gardens were too cold. Dorian seemed to find endless comfort in complaining about things. The whole idea ran counter to how Cullen chose to deal with his discomfort – by keeping it to himself as best as he could – but he’d come to enjoy Dorian’s vocal displeasure with everything he found in the South. So many of his complaints were inconsequential, delivered with dramatic exaggeration and at the same time a knowing glint in his eyes that left no doubt that Dorian was quite aware of how inconsequential they were. It was oddly charming.

“If you say you’re not hungry, I will never believe a word that comes out of your mouth again,” Dorian continued when Cullen had been about to say just that. Cullen kept his laugh quiet so it wouldn’t hurt his head even more, and flashed Dorian a grateful smile before he took the bowl.

“Thank you, Dorian. Please, sit – if you’d like to stay, that is.”

Cullen didn’t ask if anyone had put Dorian up to this – the Inquisitor, who seemed to make it his job to worry about everyone around him, or maybe Leliana, who without a doubt knew about every meal anyone in their camp took or skipped. But Cullen doubted it. It had taken him some time to see through all of Dorian’s carefully constructed facade of snobbish carelessness, but Dorian cared a great deal more than he admitted at first.

“I think I’ve heard every Fereldan drinking song tonight and now they’re starting at the beginning again, but singing it worse,” he said and made himself comfortable on Cullen’s cot. Unbidden images flashed through Cullen’s mind, but he pushed them aside. There wasn’t any other place for Dorian to sit, that was all.

Cullen knew for a fact that Dorian had spent his share of nights listening (and once he got drunk enough, singing along) to Fereldan drinking songs, but he appreciated the company. He hadn’t had time to think about it, between all the preparations for the assault on Adamant Fortress, but listening to Dorian talk while he ate his stew made him realise that he’d really quite missed him. Their chess games had become a regular habit, at least when Dorian wasn’t out and about with the Inquisitor, and they had followed up on them with a shared meal more and more often in recent months. The chess hadn’t been so surprising – Cullen was quite good at it, and a man as brilliant as Dorian clearly needed a competent opponent – but he hadn’t expected Dorian to seek out his company even outside of their games. 

As unimaginable as the thought would have been to Cullen a year ago, they’d become friends. He’d made a few of those since joining the Inquisition. Kirkwall had been lonely – mostly through his own fault, he was quite aware of that. Just having Cassandra to confide in had already eased the burden on his shoulders, and he was on quite friendly terms with the Inquisitor himself and his fellow advisors. But calling a Tevinter mage a friend … that had sneaked up on him like an unexpected, if not unwelcome, surprise.

He’d finished his stew and at least some of the bread, and was just washing it down with the rather pungent tea when he realised that Dorian had stopped talking. He was watching Cullen quietly – those dark, far too clever eyes, the lines between his brows thoughtful. Even in the midst of a desert, Dorian managed to look flawless: his skin was smooth and temptingly soft, except for the shadow of stubble that lay on his chin and jaw this late in the evening. His moustache was curled as perfectly above his lip as the neatly coiffed hair at his temple, as if the desert winds hadn’t even touched him. He wore a thick fur cloak over his clothes to ward off the night chill, but the way he had thrown it over his shoulder made it look like a particularly elegant fashion accessory rather than a sensible piece of clothing.

 _Maker, he’s breathtaking_ , Cullen thought – hardly a new realisation, but sometimes it struck him anew. Occasionally he thought he’d got used to Dorian’s beauty, to his charm, to the warm sound of his laughter, and locked it up tightly in the corner of his mind where he kept all inappropriate and unwanted desires, to be disregarded until the next nightmare tore them out into the open to torment him. But then Cullen looked away for a few days and felt overwhelmed the moment he returned his gaze to Dorian. It wasn’t merely the sharp, angular lines of his face, the slender fingers, the elegance with which he held himself. It was the intelligence in his eyes, too, the witty banter when they played.

Suddenly Cullen was painfully aware of how tired he looked. It had been a long week, and the pain of bad days always left him pale and with a sickly tint to his skin. He hadn’t eaten enough recently, and as lean as he'd been since quitting lyrium, a few days of that were enough to make his cheeks look hollow and gaunt. Dorian knew him well enough to notice all these things, to pick up on Cullen’s weakness like a demon burrowing into his mind.

It was an unkind thought, and Cullen immediately scolded himself for it. Dorian teased, and he had a sharp, scathing tongue towards those he didn’t particularly like, but he’d never been cruel to Cullen. Even now, as he stood slowly from the cot and stepped closer, as he raised his right hand to Cullen’s face and brushed his fingertips over the stubble on his cheek, there was no pity in his eyes. They’d only spoken about Cullen’s addiction, and the pains withdrawal brought with it, one or two times. Dorian had asked if there was anything he could do to help and then he let it go when he was told no. He’d been – not kind about it in a condescending way, but quietly sympathetic. It had been the first time Cullen had realised that for all his complaining about trivialities, Dorian kept his own grief and doubts and weaknesses close to his chest. He respected Cullen’s reluctance to open up because he shared it.

“I keep telling you, you should try to relax sometimes, Commander,” Dorian said softly. Letting them both pretend it was that easy, that Cullen was merely tired and overworked. It wasn’t as if he was wrong – Cullen knew he worked too hard, but he’d always worked hard, and the Inquisition needed him more than any other cause he’d ever served.

“We’re not going to take Adamant Fortress by relaxing,” Cullen replied. Dorian’s fingers were still on his cheek, a touch so light and fleeting it shouldn’t have been able to replace the ache in his skin with a more pleasant tingling. Up close Dorian smelt of scented soap – of course even he didn’t look this perfect after a day on horseback in the desert without washing up first. 

“No, but you’ve done all you can do today. And we might all be dead in a few days.”

Cullen snorted.

“You’re very optimistic about our success.”

“I’m a Tevinter Altus, my dear Commander, I’m so used to people attempting to kill me that I try to live my life to the fullest every day. And that goes double when I’m about to go up against an army of Grey Wardens, blood mages, and demons. I’m not going to die regretting that I spent my last nights alone.”

The mere mention of facing blood mages and demons sent a spike of instinctive fear through Cullen’s mind. Bindings tightening around his wrists, his ankles, his shoulders, stretching his limbs beyond their capacity, the sickening pop of dislocated joints, the cloying sweetness of a desire demon’s whisper in his ear, promises of everything he ever wanted, promises to make the pain go away, promises to deliver Surana right into his hands, where he was supposed to be, it was a Templar’s right, wasn’t it …

“Cullen?” Dorian said, his tone somewhere between concerned and alarmed.

Cullen blinked away the red haze before his eyes to focus on Dorian’s face. Beautiful, familiar. A mage’s face. Cullen trusted him as much as he trusted the Inquisitor, but they were both mages still, waiting to be possessed, receptacles that were one moment of weakness away from turning into abominations. Meredith’s voice echoed in his head, reaffirming everything Kinloch Hold had taught him to believe. Trust none of them. Never let your guard down.

Cullen shook his head as if to chase her voice, banished her from his mind as firmly as he banished the demons. He wasn’t that man anymore. He wasn’t afraid anymore of shadows and maybes. Dorian was his friend. More importantly, Dorian was an extremely competent, strong-willed mage. And Cullen wanted him this close, had dreamt of it in nights when the nightmares left him alone, or sometimes he’d thought about it on purpose to ward off the darkness. It was an idle fantasy, and one he felt more than a little guilty about – a man shouldn’t think about his friend’s naked body sprawled out in his bed, and he certainly shouldn’t assume that just because Dorian was generally inclined towards men, he’d be inclined towards Cullen. But it was a beautiful fantasy for a mind that didn’t allow itself much beauty, and he wouldn’t let his old fears take it from him. 

Only then did the rest of Dorian’s words register.

“What do you mean, not spend your nights alone?” he said dumbly. Company, of course, Dorian wanted to talk to him, the way they’d often talked into the night. About history, about magic, about chess strategies. About books they’d both read, or more often books only one of them had read and shared with the other.

The worried look faded from Dorian’s face and was replaced by an almost mischievous smile.

“Did I make you speechless for a moment?” Somehow he shifted closer still, his palm cupping Cullen’s cheek more firmly. It had been so long since someone had touched him with this kind of gentleness. Intimate. Not merely a friend’s supportive hand on his shoulder after a long day, no, the kind of touch that whispered of more. But this whisper wasn’t rotten and corrupting, it wasn’t a demon’s filthy seduction, it was real, human, soft skin Cullen could touch if he only let himself. After all colour must have drained from his face a moment before, he felt himself flushing now.

“Judging by the way you’re looking at me, I mean exactly what you’re thinking of right now,” Dorian continued. He shrugged minutely – barely more than a lift of one shoulder, but it was enough to make the fur cloak slip off his frame and to the floor. Underneath was one of those ridiculously tight outfits he favoured, clinging to the strong lines of his chest, his arms; one shoulder bared and gleaming like dark copper in the light of the oil lamps. Even that tantalising, small glimpse of skin, the one that had taunted Cullen almost since they had met, spoke of lean strength, an unavoidable reminder that Dorian wasn’t the product of a southern Circle, raised in lightless libraries and behind locked doors, taught to keep his gaze firmly on the ground. No, he was straight-backed and proud and it should have made him dangerous, terrifying, but all Cullen could think about that this was a mage who could deny him. A mage who wouldn’t cower and submit, who’d always leave Cullen wondering if it had only been fear that had brought him to his bed. The dark, ugly parts of his mind relished that idea sometimes ( _he’s a mage, you should own him, it’s your divine right_ ), but the parts that he hoped were more him than a demon’s stain on his soul, those parts would have flinched away from any Circle mage’s touch far more quickly than from that proud Tevinter mage.

And yet, “I don’t do this … casually, Dorian. I don’t –” Cullen’s voice trailed off. He wasn’t prone to stammering, except apparently when he found himself face to face with a beautiful mage who seemed far more interested in him than Cullen had been prepared for.

Dorian laughed, a light and breezy sound that was more teasing than taunting.

“I thought we’d already established that that was your entire problem.” Dorian paused, his face darkening for a moment. “Well, one of your problems in addition to Corypheus, insane Grey Wardens, holes in the sky, scheming Orlesian nobles …”

He didn’t mention the lyrium, that permanent itch of want and need under Cullen’s skin. In the past the lyrium had often dulled his other desires, and so had the early pains of withdrawal, but once his body had started to get accustomed to its lack, other things had become so much more tempting. Food had more taste, the air smelt fresher, and more and more often he’d touched himself at night again, his eyes wide open, staring up into the night sky and imagining dark, slender fingers instead of his own.

“I’m sure when all this is over, when Corypheus is defeated and the Inquisition doesn’t need you anymore, you’re going to marry a nice Fereldan girl, have some pretty golden-haired children and a gaggle of those big ugly dogs.” There was an uncharacteristic bitterness in Dorian’s voice, but that wasn’t what filled Cullen with an odd sense of guilt. Was he so transparent? Because that was what he liked to imagine, in dreams even more hidden than the ones about pinning Dorian to his bed and sucking marks into his skin. A normal life. The life his parents had lived, the life his siblings lived. It wasn’t that there would be anything wrong with sharing that life with a man, but it wasn’t – it wasn’t what most people did. It wasn’t a peasant boy's simple fantasy of a simple life.

And nothing about Dorian Pavus, standing in front of him with his bare shoulder and the golden rings in his ears, was simple, or expected. But if Cullen was honest, he had a hard time imagining himself – the scars, the aches, the guilt of his past – living the life his parents had lived. There was nothing simple about him anymore either. He looked away, but he still didn’t flinch from Dorian’s touch on his cheek.

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” he said quietly. And because he was Fereldan, he added, “And don’t call mabaris ugly.”

“They’re hideous,” Dorian said almost automatically, then waved his free hand in irritation. “The point is, there’s no need to make any of this complicated. We might not survive the week, neither of us has anywhere else to be – or anyone else to be with – and …”

Here Dorian stopped, as if the callousness of his own words, a callousness that stung Cullen more than he cared to admit, had bitten into his flesh as well. Now it was Dorian who averted his eyes, Dorian’s hand that faltered.

“And for once I would prefer to share this with a friend rather than a stranger.” The smile was back as quickly as it had faded, the flirtatious tone along with it, “Especially a friend this handsome.”

Dorian made it sound so simple, but Cullen had never been good at – at this kind of simple. He’d been too shy and flustered about his desires as a recruit to participate in the fumbling and games that went on in the barracks, he’d been too scarred and paranoid in Kirkwall to lower his guard around a stranger or, even worse, around someone who knew of his weak spots. He’d never known how to indulge in his desires without making it complicated.

But the shadow of Corypheus hung over all of them, the quiet knowledge of every soldier that the next battle could be the last, the pain that sat in his joints and his muscles and his skin that made it so hard to remember that his body could bring him pleasure, too. And Dorian –

Dorian must have grown tired of waiting for him to make up his mind, because he leant in until his lips brushed against Cullen’s, the moustache tickling his skin. Cullen kept forgetting that they were the same height, and it felt so natural to return that kiss, to let his lips part when Dorian’s tongue teased at them, to raise his hand to the back of Dorian’s neck and touch the downy hair at his nape, to breathe him in greedily like a drowning man. It was better than he could have imagined, the intensity of it driving a spike through his head that made it throb painfully for a few moments before the ache ebbed away and all he felt was the heat of Dorian’s body pressed against his, the heat of his mouth, of his breath.

There was something almost desperate in the way Dorian surged against him – Cullen wasn’t sure if it was desire for _him_ or just that unspecified desire to be touched, especially at a time like this. Dorian interrupted his musings with a sharp bite to Cullen’s lip.

“I’ll be insulted if you manage to brood even now, Commander.”

“Cullen,” Cullen corrected him, a smile tugging at his lips. “I couldn’t think of anything but you right now.”

Something softened in Dorian’s eyes, for a moment they were warm and wide and open and so genuinely longing that Cullen found his question answered. Seconds passed while they merely looked at each other, Dorian’s hand still on Cullen’s cheek, Cullen’s on Dorian’s neck, his thumb gently rubbing tense muscles. Dorian had been so confident about the kiss, as if it had been nothing at all, and here he was staring at Cullen like a rabbit at a wolf, except maybe this rabbit was quite willing to be eaten. Cullen realised the comparison made no sense, and then he stopped thinking at all when Dorian slid to his knees in one fluid, elegant motion.

Cullen almost followed him – they were only a step away from the cot and could easily tumble onto it, and he hadn’t tasted his fill yet of Dorian’s lips – but then Dorian inched closer and pressed his hot mouth against Cullen’s groin. It was only a dull, unfocused pressure through the thick leather of Cullen’s breeches, but it was enough to send a rush of heat through his body. A minute passed while Dorian nosed and nuzzled at the straining leather, teasing and teasing and Cullen wouldn’t have wanted it to stop for anything in the world. It was almost too dark to see much when Dorian looked up at him. He seemed to want to say something – probably a lewd innuendo to fit the situation – but then he apparently thought better of it and stayed quiet while he unlaced Cullen’s breeches.

The last time someone had done this for Cullen – Maker, he didn’t want to think of that. It had been urgent and fast and almost a little rough. There was urgency in the way Dorian moved as well, but it was the urgency of impatience and lust rather than of casual indifference, an urgency Cullen understood all too well when he couldn’t help but feel frustrated that all he could touch of Dorian was his hair, his neck. The curve of his neck was beautiful from this angle, proud and elegant even when he bowed his head, flawless skin that Cullen dug his fingers into a little harder, as if a bruise would make this real.

Dorian moaned his encouragement, hot breath washing over Cullen’s cock, and then he slid those soft lips around the shaft and moaned again, deep and reverberating through the sensitive flesh.

“Maker, Dorian,” Cullen gasped only because he couldn’t stay quiet. If the soft heat of Dorian’s mouth had been tantalising before, it was almost too much now, the wet pressure of his tongue against the underside of Cullen’s cock, the slick slide of his lips against the sensitive skin. And every time Cullen thought he’d gathered himself enough to form a clear thought beyond _more, Dorian, please, more_ , unsure if he thought or said those words, every time Dorian moaned again as if this was a treat for him as much as for Cullen.

Cullen clung to the side of the crate for balance and to the back of Dorian’s neck with the other hand. A part of him – half greedy, half worried – thought he must have been hurting him, his grip too tight, pain blossoming on smooth skin, but Dorian didn’t seem to mind, Dorian only moved closer and swallowed harder and choked himself almost eagerly on Cullen’s length. It was more than Cullen could take for long, not after the tension of the past weeks, months, years, not after having been alone for so long, not after yearning for Dorian for longer than he could possibly tell him. He hardly managed to gasp a warning before he spilt himself into Dorian’s magnificent mouth, and the light choking noise from deep within Dorian’s throat sent another spike of pleasure through Cullen.

He let him go slowly, dizzily, like in a dream, the rare good dream he still had. Dorian looked up at him with a smile on his gleaming, wet lips. They were dark spots on his neck where Cullen had held him down, but Dorian only rubbed at them with an almost intrigued look on his face.

No need to make things complicated, Dorian had said. And he’d sounded like he’d meant it – not like it was what he wanted, necessarily, because what Dorian truly wanted tended to be hidden under masks and deflections, hidden away as neatly as what Cullen feared. No, he’d sounded like he thought it was expected, even after Cullen had mentioned that his own expectations were quite different.

It wasn’t that he was in love with Dorian – he wasn’t young and naive enough anymore to mistake infatuation for deep, lasting love, and he hadn’t known Dorian for long enough … He couldn’t have loved him yet, not with all the other things tearing at his mind for attention. A man like Dorian should be loved with a full heart, not with what little was left of Cullen after the lyrium and his duties had been done with him.

But watching Dorian pull himself up with laughter on his lips before he sank against Cullen’s still armoured chest, he realised that he _could_ fall in love with him. With a man, a mage, a Tevinter who’d made it clear that he had every intention of returning home to a country Cullen didn’t plan to ever set foot in. He could love him, and that ached more than not having him at all.

Dorian kissed him again, more softly than before. His lips tasted of Cullen, and that was both overwhelmingly intimate and so _filthy_ that it made Cullen wish he hadn’t spent himself yet. He licked into Dorian’s mouth for another taste, wrapped both arms around him to feel the length of his body against his. Dorian gasped at the pressure, his cock straining against the tight fabric he wore. Cullen wanted everything, wanted to get to his knees and worship every inch of his body, but just as his fingers opened the first buckle of those needlessly complicated clothes, he heard a voice calling from outside, “Commander?”

They both froze like children who’d been caught sneaking into the baker’s storage room, and Dorian chuckled helplessly, burying his face against Cullen’s neck to muffle the sound. The only reason Cullen didn’t reply immediately was that he didn’t trust his voice to sound like himself again, and he hesitated long enough for Dorian to cover his mouth with his fingers.

“I have to –“ Cullen whispered against the touch. This could be important, he couldn’t neglect his duties for … for this, no matter how unbearable the idea of taking his hands off Dorian was.

“I think he went to sleep,” said another voice. Cullen recognised Mara, one of his aides. Heat rose to his face at the idea of having to face anyone who knew him right now.

“Should we wake him?”

Brief consideration, then, “No, this can wait until morning. Let him rest, he works too much as it is.”

Neither of them relaxed until the sound of two pairs of boots had faded, and Dorian was still snickering against his shoulder. He looked up with a mischievous grin on his face that only widened when he saw how flushed Cullen was.

“See, now we have the night to ourselves,” Dorian said. The little interruption hadn’t made him less hard, and he squirmed impatiently against Cullen. Cullen's head still throbbed, even if the pain had been dulled by the infusion, but his skin felt warm and soothed wherever Dorian touched him. 

“Just this night?” Cullen asked without considering his words, and there was that wide, open look in Dorian’s eyes again, that of a man who was seeing something he couldn’t quite believe was real. Again it lasted only for a split second.

“It’s a good start," he said with something almost like hope in his voice. He ran his thumb over Cullen’s lips, retracing the cupid’s bow and then his scar, followed up on his finger’s touch with a light kiss. “We’d better survive the next days. We’re both far too handsome to die this young.”

His words were flippant, but his touch was tender and lingering when they stripped each other bare and sank onto the cot, golden and copper limbs intertwining, fingers retracing old scars or peppering the faintest bruises on unblemished skin, tender still when he curled his fingers into Cullen’s hair as Cullen took him into his mouth, tender when they sank sweat-slick and exhausted into the sheets.

Minutes passed in silence before Dorian tensed a little as if to sit up, but as soon as Cullen’s arms tightened around him, he lay back against his chest. They’d have this night at least, and afterwards, if they survived the week ... whatever it would be, it would not be simple. But no matter how fleeting or complicated it might have to be, Cullen could not find it in himself any longer to deny them both everything they could share.


End file.
